


Gaining Heart

by AphroditesTummyRolls



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Vengeance, Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Forced Prostitution, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, It has a happy ending I swear, Kidnapping, M/M, Mira lives cuz I said so, canon divergence from the end of Vengeance, not graphic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:34:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29083242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AphroditesTummyRolls/pseuds/AphroditesTummyRolls
Summary: There were more apologies that Agron could not— would not— hear. Spartacus’ voice, spoken as if to a cornered animal, came down in diluted echoes to his right, and Crixus’ hand stayed planted on his shoulder. Gannicus broke further words to Lugo and Donar, grilling them for the smallest detail, but Agron felt as if all of his brothers existed on some separate plane.He knew nothing other than he was frozen. The warmth of that day’s sun, the blaze of Nasir’s touch upon his cheek, his lips pressed to his— all of that heat fled his very bones, leaving him as a statue.Nasir was gone.*** in which Nasir is stolen and sold back into slavery, Agron loses heart and worries his friends, and the gods return them to each others' arms***
Relationships: (kinda-- in the background maybe), Agron & Crixus, Agron & Spartacus, Agron/Nasir, Crixus & Nasir, Crixus/Naevia, Mira/Spartacus, Nasir & Spartacus, a hint of Gannicus/Saxa but I'm pretty indifferent
Comments: 51
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [to set eyes again upon your heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5135654) by [liggytheauthoress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liggytheauthoress/pseuds/liggytheauthoress). 



> Spartacus was supposed to just be a fun background show, but I should've known I'd end up here-- in love with the characters (Agron and Nasir especially), annoyed at the key strategic problems of Spartacus' assault on Rome, and ready to bring some hardcore found family vibes to the rebel camp. 
> 
> This story is inspired by To Set Eyes Again Upon Your Heart by liggytheauthoress. I loved the idea, I LOVED the oc character (so much so that I borrowed her, I hope that's okay with you, liggy!), and I loved the nagron reunion so much that I wanted more! And it kinda spawned it's own story. This story follows the same general plan, but deviates a lot into my own little headcanons and things-- because in my head War of the Damned DOESN'T HAPPEN and I have a lot of ideas about how to take down Rome... 2000 years too late, lol. 
> 
> You can expect the type of language, violence, and sexual dubiousness that is in the show, but very little (if any) of it will be graphic. I'll change warnings and tags to reflect that as I go, and there'll be a trigger warning in the beginning notes, just in case. 
> 
> AS ALWAYS i need validation like tinkerbell needs applause to live-- if you like this story, please leave me a comment and let me know <3 I love hearing from you!

  
The days following the defeat of Glaber had been a flurry of activity. 

Agron found himself not only leading on field of battle, but leading organization and defensive strategy. Those fucking Romans had moved into the temple as if it was their own home, claiming all that they saw— but they had also brought much of their own. Food, wine, supplies— it was a gift from the fucking gods, and needed proper inventory.

Agron knew not how to do that. Nasir and Naevia were invaluable, cleaning each chamber of any evidence of battle, cataloguing lists and categorizing everything from barrels of grain to rolls of bandages. 

Nasir had a sharp eye and keen skill. He worked tirelessly, disappearing from view with other house slaves flocking to his heels. Pride swelled in Agron’s chest to see him in such an element. Spartacus, Donar, Gannicus— even Crixus— found themselves impressed. 

But, with his shoulders back and hair pulled away from his eyes, conversing about how former dominuses stored wine for long journeys— something in the air around him changed, and it set Agron’s stomach into knots. 

He took on the air of Tiberius. He would come back to Agron’s side after long hours of slipping into old skin, and he could yet see the strange haze over his handsome black eyes. 

It was soon decided that Nasir was better suited to joining the watch cycle— he was quickly rising as a formidable warrior, and his gaze was rarely as clouded when he returned to Agron’s side in the evening. His kiss was passionate, not passive. His smile was bright, and his shoulders less rigid. 

It set mind to ease. 

Watches were doubled in search of any approaching trouble, and the corpses of Roman soldiers were piled high around the walls of the temple as a warning to any who may think them to be easy targets. They nursed their injured, and mourned their dead. 

Oenamaus’ pyre burned particularly hot and strong, the flames licking the heavens as the most honorable of men made his journey to the afterlife. Gannicus had wailed unabashedly, held up only by Crixus’ firm friendship, arm wrapped around his back. No one would dare call him weak, no one would dare think him— a _god_ of the arena— as anything fucking _less than_ for that moment, lost to such grief. Agron would make sure of it. 

He understood the loss of a brother. He would slay any who would dare whisper of Gannicus’ name with less than his warranted honor. 

He also understood what it was to sit at the bedside of a loved one clinging to life’s threads. Mira’s cauterized wounds and closed eyes, the acrid smell of blood and herbs— Agron’s fingers itched to find Nasir and hold him each time he found himself meeting with Spartacus. Their fearless leader could always be found in the makeshift medicus, where Mira was laid. 

“How fares her wound?” He finally asked, from his place stalling in the threshold after his and Crixus’ reports. Nearly five days had come and gone since the battle’s end, and the longer they stayed idle, the more restlessness crept into his bones. 

Spartacus spared but a glance up at him, nodding pensively “Her fever has broken. Supplies left by Glaber’s forces are of good quality, and she benefits greatly.” 

“You anticipate she will wake soon?” 

He knew not what gave his intent away— his feigned nonchalance, the flex in his hands, his gaze holding strong with an urgency he couldn’t dim. Despite past actions, he was far from a deceptive or sly disposition, and he was unable to hide from his brothers.

This was made clear when Crixus scoffed at his words. “Find fucking tongue, Agron— speak plainly.” Spartacus, too, now looked up and held his gaze. Methodical as ever, he appeared level and calm, yet his hand stayed clasped around Mira’s slack fingers. 

He sighed, “We cannot stay here much longer with safety assured. More fucking Romans will be beating down our walls in no time, and we are too weak to take fresh assault.”

“We may be too weak to take them, brother, but we are also too weak to move— Mira is far from the only one to suffer injury.” Spartacus eyed him with his usual piercing gaze. Agron chewed his cheek, the knot of unease tightening within him. 

“I understand. I simply wish to know next steps— who _knows_ what is known of us now, and not just by those armed for outright battle.” 

That had their leader’s brow furrowing, sitting forward in his seat. Crixus had long since crossed his arms to express his displeasure at his words, but their petty grudges had come far in past weeks— his stance loosened with surprise, his gaze fixed on Agron. 

“Of what do you speak?” 

There had been talk among those that took watch— Nasir had heard it pass from ear to ear, and Agron had in turn. Rumors had supposedly spread down from the mountain in wake of their victory, not only of the defeat of Glaber, but of the large crew of escaped slaves that had taken the temple. Not only had this seen their numbers swell with new rebels, but had seen word of them stretch to less sympathetic, more opportunistic ears. 

“There have been more than the usual sparse number of carts upon road.” He finally said, “It is still no more than talk, but our ranks grow restless at the idea of slavers roaming the hills, looking to capture and resell us to line their own pockets.” 

Silence descended upon the room. The gears of Spartacus’ mind turned before him, and Agron willed himself to stand strong, not to fidget under so intense a gaze. 

“Who did you hear this from?” 

“Nasir— he seemed of little concern, but others not so.” 

After a beat of time filled only by the distant chatter of a day’s work, Spartacus let loose a long sigh. He nodded, “You have been out on the roads— what do you think of it?” 

He could only shrug, shaking his head, “I think there is no witness to support such rumor, but I would sooner have us leave than see them proven true.” 

Spartacus’ brow furrowed deeper, no doubt weighing the balance of risks. Scrubbing a hand down his face, he turned his gaze on Crixus. 

“Have you any thoughts on this?” 

Agron stood to his full height, shoulders squared in anticipation of a verbal battle. The gaul chewed his fingers, his unblinking brown gaze seemed to pass directly through Agron, leaving him bare and irritated and unsure what there was to _fucking think_ so much about. 

He turned to Spartacus with no more than a shrug, “We have a roof, and defensible position— to take the injured on such journey invites ambush. What you speak of is of concern, Agron. But I would see us further mended before travel.” 

“A defensible position is shit to us if they send another fucking army— I would see us to someplace unknown to our enemies! If these slavers pick away at our numbers, even those who stay will lose faith in the cause. We’ll have nothing to defend!” 

He could not imagine Spartacus willing to risk his numbers in wake of such sobering thought— not after the disaster of the mines. He hoped even Crixus would see the sense in his words. Nevertheless, he braced himself with sound strategy— thoughts must’ve been clear on his face, as Spartacus looked over to him and broke into a chuckle. 

“No need to brace for battle, brother. I am with you— we _both_ stand with you. This news is troubling.” His eyes flickered to Mira, studying the length of her as his expression sobered. “We will give her until the full moon’s passing to wake. If by then, she remains as such, we will bring her by wagon, and find way to make the journey more comfortable for the injured.” 

The full moon’s passing would take no more than a week’s time. Agron felt the tangled anxieties of the day melting into guarded relief, still unsure. 

“Gratitude, brother.” He nodded, turning to leave the medicus and finally returning to air he could fucking breathe. 

* * *

Agron had always found sleep to be difficult. He was quick to wake, even from the time he was a child— Duro could wake in the night, and Agron would already be turning in their small childhood bed, ready with an open arm for his brother. The slightest nudge, smallest sound, or simply a change in the air could bring him from dreams to alert attention. 

It was a good quality in a warrior. In one who always had to be ready. 

Nasir was blessed— or perhaps cursed— as well. Sleep was a rare and fickle thing, always a moment away from being startled to wakefulness. His lifetime of training would not let him rest, with one ear still open for the call of a dominus who would never command him again. 

Until they took to each other’s arms at the temple beneath Vesuvius, with their combined blankets and body heat, and long, languid nights of exhausting each other. With Agron’s broad chest pressed to his back and strong arms around his waist, Nasir felt as if the gods themselves tugged his eyes down into sleep. When Agron nuzzled his nose into the soft black hair at the nape of Nasir’s neck, when he breathed in his light, distinctive scent and felt his heartbeat under his palm, he slept deep and heavy. He slept as if life itself was a dream. 

And it was, as long as Nasir remained in his embrace.

“—simple shit… _Agron.”_

 _“Hmm.”_ He grumbled his displeasure into the soft skin of Nasir’s neck. 

_“Agron—!”_ A rough hand came down and shook his shoulder. He jolted, eyes wide open for long moments before he registered what it was he saw. Blinking into the dim light of their corner of the temple, he saw Naevia, Crixus— hand still gripping Agron’s shoulder— and Spartacus. 

Naevia crouched by Crixus’ side, while Spartacus loomed back in the shadows. Moonlight streamed in behind him as the full moon shone down, outlining his strong shoulders and rigid stance. His eyes pierced the night, and Agron knew something was wrong. 

Muscles tensed for an unknown battle, he shook the last vestiges of rest and sat up from warm blankets and the comforting curl of Nasir’s body. 

“What has happened?” He rasped, his tired voice sounding harsh in the quiet. Nasir only turned over, dark lashes fluttering and closing again as he woke by slow increments. 

Naevia spoke before even Spartacus could find tongue, her eyes bright and afraid by the torch’s glow. “Only one of the night watch returned from forest— Saxa spoke of wagons and roadside ambush.” 

The words felt cold in his veins before Agron fully parsed meaning from them. The now familiar knots of anxious dread locked up within him, and Agron looked for anything else from the eyes burning into him, incredulous and wide. 

It had scarcely been three nights since he first broke words to his fellow brothers about the rumors whispered by new recruits. He had all but banished them from mind, assuaged of fear by Spartacus’ confidence. 

He should have fought harder to move them sooner— he was of half a mind to leave that very night. Agron would carry Mira himself if he must— 

“ _Fuck the gods—_ Who was lost?” he heard pass his lips, watching with rapt attention as their leader scrubbed palm over his face. 

“Two,” Crixus replied, “new recruits from the south. The attack was calculated and swift. Saxa is to lead us where ambush took them—“

He trailed off, mouth clicking shut with audible sound. Agron followed his gaze to the mat, only to find himself unintentionally scowling down at a bleary-eyed Nasir. Still warm and soft with sleep, he had turned onto his back to find Agron’s grim face, and his black eyes blinked awake with concern. 

“What furrows brow?” He murmured with still-sleeping tongue, warm palm cupping Agron’s cheek, stroking thumb over his face and holding gaze down at him. He had not the will to look away, nor to acknowledge the others and snap his love from the last vestiges of peace. “Agron?” 

Steadfastly ignoring the red heat flushing up to his ears, he found voice just as Crixus lost patience. 

“Rumors from your watch hold true—“ Nasir startled, bolting up to sitting, all sleepiness flying from him in mere moments as he came to realize their audience. “Slavers’ wagons hunt us by night.” Agron and Crixus may have settled their differences, but his hands still found themselves in fists at the blunt words.

 _“Wagons?”_ Nasir shook his head, dismayed, “Left they anything behind?” 

“We leave to search by moonlight.” Spartacus replied, returning from wherever in his mind he had flown to. 

Nasir turned to Agron, then, and he knew from just one glance at the set of his jaw and the torchlight in his eyes, what Nasir was thinking. 

“I would go with you.” 

“I would sooner have you sleep a while longer.” He replied, but was lacking any sense of command, absent the will to fight a battle already won. Nasir knew such things, leaning into the hand Agron used to brush wayward black hair into place before rising to take his spear in hand. 

“What is sleep when you are wrested from side? I will make myself useful—“ 

“Would that we were _all_ making ourselves fucking useful.” Crixus huffed, but Naevia was beaming with amusement as he helped her to stand. 

Agron’s sheathed sword was tossed then, with such force that it narrowly missed his head, and he made no attempt to hide the dramatic roll of his eyes. He supposed it wasn’t quite so bad— for every time he nearly took a sword to his head, Crixus also had a habit of offering a hand up from ground. 

Agron took it with firm grasp, and followed the others into the cool shadows of the forest. His smile slipped from face, and the icy knots of worry seemed to spread inside him like poison. 

He kept Nasir close, and his friends always in line of sight, as Saxa led them through the trees.

* * *

There was nothing left in the forest. 

There was barely a track of feet, hooves or otherwise. All drag marks and signs of struggling only led back to the road. There, all was lost. 

Just as the sky began to lighten, they had done all they could do. The grass and brush was combed for any sign of who had taken those two poor souls, and the road was walked in both directions to attempt divining where they may have been taken to market. 

Saxa grew more and more rattled as they approached the camp at dawn. Her muscles tensed as if ready to rip apart some poor creature— he almost suggested they go on a hunt, but thought better of it. Her hard grey eyes were gleaming with a wild light that he would’ve thought to be tears in anyone else’s, and her hands tugged periodically through her mane of curls. 

Over morning meal, Spartacus made announcement of the night’s events. To quell the tide of rising concern, watch groups were doubled in size and might— with Gannicus, Agron, and Crixus now to take rotation. 

They were to abandon the temple at first light of the next day, to take to the paths deeper into the woods and south. A new camp, hidden from enemy eyes, was the only route to safety now. 

Spartacus gave short nod to Agron, silent admittance passing between minds as their leader started arranging tasks for the coming journey. 

_"Apologies,"_ he had said upon road that night, _"_ _if your words were heeded and journey been taken earlier—"_

 _"Do not turn blame inward,"_ Agron shook his head, casting eyes out into the moonlit darkness, _"_ _None saw the true danger of it, Brother."_

They were words spoken with a clap upon shoulder, mind clear and heart intact. Words Agron would cling to often as the coming months closed in on him, when all would appear lost. 

Had he known, had he even a thought for what was to come, Agron would’ve done many things differently. 

It wasn’t until after announcement was made of the night’s events, and new watch groups were assigned, that Agron looked back over to his long distant kin and saw the wobble in Saxa’s lip. The guilt she could no longer hide cracked through her fierce exterior. 

He reassigned her from the watch cycle to packing of the storerooms, hoping Spartacus would be of similar mind. With no more than a few calming words in their mother tongue, her tension dissolved into something like relief— Agron knew his decision had struck true when the warrior didn’t raise a single complaint to her reassignment. 

“I would assume post in Saxa’s stead.” He said, catching Spartacus by the arm as he sent off the first of the new groups. Their leader only nodded, chewing his lip. 

“Very well— groups will be shifted accordingly.” He leaned into Agron’s hand, inclining head to talk in more confidence. “How does she fare?” 

Agron pulled a noncommittal face, shrugging. “Not as well as she would like all to think.” 

Privately, he didn’t think her wrong for assigning herself a level of guilt. Saxa was a worthy warrior, her ferocity in battle piled corpses in her wake— she was skilled and strong. Yet, she had been overtaken, and by what? By a couple slave traders with surprise on their side? 

She was to train those two poor souls in taking watch that night. They were not but lambs compared to her formidable capability, and they had been stolen from under her sight.

Agron rid himself of the offending words, burying himself in work.

He did not put voice to thought. Perhaps he would have, were he still the same man who fled Batiatus’ ludus— but, the laying of blame was callous. He knew full well that, were he in Saxa’s unenviable place, he may have made the same error. 

The memory of Duro tightened his chest, and he shook himself. It was not as if someone sworn to his protection had never been killed on his account. _Or that they never would again,_ came a fucking insidious little voice, clawing its way in from the back of his mind. 

He looked over, floundering only slightly as he searched and found Nasir’s beloved form. He stood with spear in hand, breaking words with Donar and Naevia. Just the sight of him thawed the jagged edges of Agron’s worry, but he still found himself itching to touch, to _hold_ him. 

He thought of Nasir’s soft, slight body against his in the blankets at night. The way his hips pushed into his, and how Agron’s arms felt so perfect wrapped around his warm body. 

Agron had never loved another the way he loved the young Syrian. Were he just a bit less in love, he might have been taken aback by the speed with which Nasir had become his _home._ Yet, it didn’t feel frightening. 

The only fear he had— the most all-encompassing, worst of nightmares— was to lose _him._ To lose beautiful, beloved home. 

“What thoughts cause such pain?” A shoulder bumped lightly against his bicep, a hand— still so soft, despite the calluses of training— coming to intertwine their fingers. 

He knew it was Nasir before he turned, lips curling into a dimpled smile despite himself as he fixed eyes on his face. The wayward lock of dark hair that always fell out of his braid had done so yet again, and he pushed it back behind ear. 

Nasir’s brow had furrowed, his gaze sharp as he studied Agron’s face, but the severity melted away under Agron’s bright welcome. Nasir was clever, though, and still awaited answer. 

His brow arched. Agron kissed beloved temple, tried to shake away the feeling of dread fucking _roiling_ in his gut. 

“All is well— mind wanders to concern, making preparations for our journey.” He admitted, only lightly. “All _will_ be well when we are far from fucking here— since last night, I feel as if Roman eyes are everywhere.” 

Nasir was placated enough to answer with a nod, leading Agron along to the line for evening meal. “I look forward to the day we can rest with more peace— I relish not feeling like prey in our woods. You took watch this morning?” 

He had. “All was _silent._ Not a fucking stone was out of place.” He recalled as they sat with their portioned bowls, “As if every animal knew better than to walk through such trees.” 

It was an eerie thing, to walk where no sane soul would step— like the gods themselves had parted veil to another world. The wood seemed braced for some type of impact that the rebels had yet to be made aware of. It reminded Agron of his first battles, in forests East of the Rhine when he was no more than a boy. Back when the anticipation of blood was as heart-pounding as the taking of those first lives. 

_The gods do fucking play with us,_ he shook his head, letting out a long sigh that had Nasir scooting closer to his side. 

A kiss was pressed to the meat of his shoulder, then a cheek rested over the same, sweet spot. Something warm and liquid settled within him, and he found himself looking out over the training ground from their perch on the steps. 

People sparred, broke words, laughed and ate. The temple was a hive of activity— preparations were being made, the map Agron had laid out with his brothers was being studied. 

He saw Naevia pouring over the parchment. Her clever mind whirred before him as she took in the plans— it was Naevia’s duty to assure safe passage for those still wounded. For Mira, mostly. 

Saxa was taking out her leftover rage crossing swords with Gannicus. It was a position Agron did not envy, even for a gladiator of his brother’s caliber. Though, disarmed of his weapons, with Saxa’s hips pinning him with knees on his fucking _shoulders,_ Agron doubted much that the mad Celtic fuck particularly minded being bested. 

Then, by their large guarded gate, stood Spartacus. His conversation appeared deep and thoughtful, gesturing across the length of the wall with Lugo and Donar. Donar’s axe was affixed to his back, scowling. Lugo scrubbed a meaty hand through his whiskers, looking to his Germanic brother for occasional translation. 

A young thing stood at Donar’s back, barely reaching his shoulder— one of those new recruits. She looked as if she had seen no more than 18 summers, but her gaze was fierce and determined. Agron knew not whether to mourn her imminent passing, or fear her tenacity. 

There was once a time he thought Nasir little more than her— perhaps, the gods would occasionally show favor by proving him wrong. 

Agron turned and pressed smiling lips into Nasir’s hair. 

Nasir let out a hum in wordless reply. 

Loathe to break the peace in the nonexistent space between them, Agron finally broke words. “You have yet taken your watch as well?” 

“I take my leave upon Crixus’ return.” He sighed. 

All the tension that had been lulled from Agron’s body was suddenly back— a bitter, terrible thing that seized at his muscles and sank into bone. His stomach twisted, and he turned to look properly over at Nasir. 

He squeezed Agron’s hand in both of his. 

“Cast _not_ that look. I know how you fret—“

“I do not fucking _fret—“_

“You fret before my very eyes, Agron!” He pressed fingers to Agron’s lips, eyes wide and sparkling with something between indignant fire and amusement. “I go with Lugo on left and Donar to right— I will not even be out when darkness threatens. It is the shortest watch.” 

His gut churned over on itself harder than ever, and he knew he was pouting. He could hear Duro, laughing at him in his mind, telling him yet again that he _worries like an old woman._ Agron couldn’t help the sigh that huffed past lips and fingers, doing his best to deflate the tension in him— if only for Nasir’s sake. 

Nasir was no idiot. He knew better than to not be wary of the shadows. He knew the particular dangers of the woods this night. He was also a warrior of skill and strategy, with a cool head under pressure. 

The only thing that could throw his rutter from course, would be if he thought Agron did not believe in him. 

And he couldn’t have Nasir believing falsehoods. Not when Agron believed in him more than he had ever believed in any leader, chief, or fucking _god._ So, he took him gently at the wrist and pressed a kiss to the pads of fingers on his lips. 

“Apologies.” He murmured, taking hand in his, away from his mouth, “I do worry— only out of love. Never lack of confidence, Nasir.” 

He nodded, that lock of hair falling back into his eyes. “I know, Agron. I know your heart.” 

_Better than anyone,_ he thought, but he held tongue. 

“You take that sapling with you?” He said instead, gesturing vaguely at the young thing by the wall. “She looks like she sprouted from the earth underfoot.” 

Nasir followed his gaze, huffing a laugh as he looked back to her, “Be not so mean— Sabia is of strong mind and body. We train her on watch with us.” 

Agron only nodded, unable to hide the dimple in his cheek as he took in all— the soft pride in Nasir’s tone, the bounce of amusement. “The gods show favor, putting her in your capable hands.” 

Nasir beamed, bright and warm. Agron recalled a time such compliments used to be met with sarcastic jabs and cynical eye rolls. The way Nasir used to press his lips together to hide his grin, and the blush in his cheeks bloomed in spite of himself. 

He wanted to memorize every line of his open, contented grin— the sparkle of his eyes, fringe of dark lashes and the happy flush across bridge of nose and apples of cheeks. 

That was when Crixus and his band of recruits returned. Agron’s pulse spiked for a desperate moment, counting heads and watching as Nasir did same. His back had gone rigid, smile fading under the reality of the dangers. 

Each rebel was accounted for, and absent injury. 

Nasir collected his spear, and stood to join his own group. Before he went, though, he took Agron’s cheek, touch blazing on his skin like a hearth on winter nights. He kissed him deep, searching and slow, falling willingly into embrace as Agron pulled him close. 

They did not pull away until Lugo’s jeers could be heard over the pound of their heartbeats, both their fears momentarily held at bay by the need to catch breath. 

“I shall be back in your arms by sundown.” Nasir promised. 

_Would that you never had to leave them,_ Agron bit his cheek against the words, unwilling to sound as if he harbored doubts, despite the claws of dread leaching out into his veins. 

He watched him go with the taste of his lips still fresh on his own, the scent and warmth of his body still clinging to his skin. He watched him go with a pit of cold fear twisting like a knife in his chest, until the gate swung closed behind the convoy, and Nasir disappeared from sight.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a minute longer than I thought it would, but I'm REALLY happy with how it came out. 
> 
> Just a quick little warning-- not sure if it's enough to warrant a tag, but Agron does, by our modern standards, have a panic attack in this chapter. It's not short, and is pretty descriptive. Agron having anxiety is one of my biggest headcanons for him, and it really influences the way I think about him and write him. It just suits him so well. Either way, drop me a lil comment about it if you think I should add a tag. :) 
> 
> As always, please let me know if you like it <3 comments and kudos are my lifeblood.

He remembered little of his first time at auction. 

He had been so small. The sights, smells, and sounds crashed over him like the ocean waves that had brought him so far from his homeland. The packed sand that swirled up into the air of the market was the most familiar part of this foreign place, and he remembered feeling vaguely wary. Yet, he could not recall anything as sharp as fear. Not yet. 

Nasir had been far too young to grasp the goings on around him, aware of nothing beyond the older boy gripping his hand tightly beside him. Large men in fine, colorful silks bartered back and forth over their heads in a tongue he could not parse a single word from. The acrid tang of the blacksmith smoke on the other side of the market mingled in the air with the lamb’s blood of the butcher, and the smell of the meat roasting nearly brought him to his tiny knees on the block. He had been so hungry— both of them were. 

He did not remember his brother’s name. He did not remember how old they both were, or the home they had come from— but, he remembered the sudden swell of terror that broke through his ignorance when a man appeared at the block and took him round the middle. The hand of his brother tightened around his pudgy little fingers, hard enough to cause pain as the man before him scooped him into his arms and began to pull him away. 

He did not remember his brother’s name, but he remembered the different arms of a different man, who pulled the older boy away from him. The way his face blurred with the hot tears in his vision, and mouth opened in a scream for _him_ — for someone too far in distance and memory to ever reach. His voice had been the shrill call of a child, calling for _him, “NASIR!”_

He did not hear that name again for so very long. Over time, much to his shame, he found that he did not want to— the memory of brother, the horrible market, the loss of hand and the scream of name. It felt as if it were no more than a dream. He did not want to know who his brother had been to him, or what the name _Nasir_ had meant to his brother. Yet he knew that he was not any of that anymore. 

Nasir buried his name in time, fear, and Roman shit. He had molded himself to a creature built to survive, sacrificing his brother and what little identity he recalled, all at the feet of his _dominus._ He lost himself to the rhythm of servitude, and simplicity of following at his master’s heels, trained to a name that once sounded so foreign and frightening. 

_Tiberius_ became a welcome solace from the deep scars in his mind. He was armor against an unforgiving world, in which Nasir fit nowhere but the places his dominus required him. Tiberius was calm where Nasir was frightened, blithely willing to bend to his master’s will where Nasir would grit his teeth and ball fists in the covers against the violation of cock in ass. 

There was no use in wondering who that young boy would have become, had he not been ripped from home and family. There was no use even in wondering whether the blurry-faced brother in his mind yet lived. _Nasir_ was no longer the name of a soft child in need of protecting— he was a free man. He was strong in mind and in battle, and he would see this to an end. 

He was _beloved._ And he would see his love yet again in this life. These fucking Romans would not see him break. 

So, as he stood once more on the auction block, he shielded himself with all he knew. He held what identity he had, cradling it close to chest and far from the appraising eyes of finely dressed Romans who would have him staring submissively to the packed sand beneath him. 

He assembled his armor in his mind, and tried to steel himself for a long battle. 

His knees did not quake, his hands did not tremble in their shackles. Nasir did not betray the onslaught of surreal, terrible memories rushing through his head— would never let such fear be laid so bare, as his naked form was for their audience. He looked out with cool gaze over the array of wealthy, bored faces, imagining how best he could run them through and have their blood. 

_Shriveled Roman cocks— they strut about as if they piss gold,_ scoffed a voice in his head, sounding like Agron. It set a warm spark in Nasir’s chest, and he bit cheek against an unbidden smile. He pictured a wicked, dimpled grin and forest green eyes in his mind, and held the image at the deepest part of him like a treasure. The memory of gentle touch from sword-callused hands and sweet kisses soothed his frantic mind, a balm to his worry. 

The thought of last kiss— before all was torn apart by the gods, leaving Nasir out of their favor and absent weapon or aid— was meant to calm, but Nasir could not bear sudden thought that, perhaps his heart would be lost to him. Even upon regaining freedom. 

He clenched fists, swallowing against the sharp strike of fear. 

Agron could be so impulsive. By now, with the noonday sun beating down between the buildings of the unfamiliar market, Lugo and Donar would have long since returned to the temple. Spartacus would have been told of their capture, and with him all the rest of the camp. _Agron._ Nasir could only hope he would heed the words of fucking _sense,_ that he would wait and see reason before running off absent plan. 

Spartacus would keep his wild man to purpose. Agron would listen to his brothers— as long as Crixus held tongue. 

It gave heart pause to think of Agron, so far away and so agonized by loss. _Would that I could tell him that I yet live, at least… would that I could tell him how desperately Lugo tried to reach us, that Donar nearly lost life with the force of the blow to his head. None saw our enemies approach! They were as shadows— there is no blame but mine._

His ribs squeezed in as if held in the grip of the gods, sudden swell of emotions bringing a hot sting to his eyes— Agron would blame all, he would blame _himself,_ he could lose purpose and _life._ He may even be beyond Spartacus’ reach of sanity. 

Prying himself from the brink of panic, Nasir took shuddering breath and focused on current circumstances. 

The market was shadowed by the tall buildings and colored fabric awnings. It smelled of incense and meat, but if he took a deep inhale, he thought he could perhaps smell the sea. 

He had never seen this market before— once again, in a foreign place, being bartered for beside butchered goats and ritual herbs. 

They had been upon road throughout all of the night, into the morning hours. The direction was uncertain. 

He had no clue of where they had been taken, the only familiar thing being packed sand swirling into the summer breeze. And, yet again, he was also not alone. 

Beside him, he felt young bones trembling enough for the both of them. Sabia rattled the metal rungs that chained their group together, her eyes glassy and wide with fear worn openly on her face— the only thing on her thin frame. He could not turn head to look at her, not properly, but the vision of her face in the wagon was etched into his mind as clearly as Batiatus’ brand upon Agron’s arm— lit only by the moon and frozen as a wounded rabbit. He did not know her beyond name and form, but he knew the face of a person in the throes of their worst nightmare. 

Sabia had been cruelly treated by her former dominus. She had fled without fear of death, only of recapture. And now, after less than a fortnight’s freedom, she was again in bondage. A bitter stab of guilt twisted within him, and he swallowed bile. 

_“They speak of slavers hiding in shadow, hunting us as prey.”_ She broke first words to him, shifting from foot to foot as they headed out for watch. 

Nasir had only nodded, gripping spear tighter in hand. The taste of Agron was still fresh upon lips, and the evening air was light and warm. _“There is truth to it, but fear not— we have daylight on our side.”_

He had been a fucking _idiot._

_“Stay close to my side, and keep eyes open. Should danger approach, I will protect you.”_

_I will protect you,_ he had said. He had been fool to make such promise— when, here at auction, he may never see her again. He may lose her in the endless shuffle of bodies through Rome. Nasir may fail her, relegating her to no more than a bad dream, as he failed his brother. 

He took her hand wordlessly and ignored the lump in his throat, swallowing hard. He squeezed the slight fingers and hoped he would not be made to let her go. He prayed their world of shit, piss and blood was not yet to get worse. More lonely, and more lost. 

He may yet fail them all. Spartacus, his mentor; Naevia, dearest friend; he may never see Mira wake and heal; Lugo may never get another chance to infuriate him with his shitty jeers… 

What if he never sees Agron again? What if he is yet rescued, and his heart is already fallen from grief, or enemy hand, or sheer stubbornness? 

_You said they would not break you,_ a voice cut into his mind with familiar urgency. 

He squeezed Sabia tighter, his mind spiraling. Desperately, he kept legs underneath him, re-securing the blank-faced mental armor with which he could hide his heart from public eye. 

_Keep Agron safe—_ he begged the gods, unsure who could possibly be listening over the pounding of his nerves in his ears— _do not let him rush to aid and fall to death while he holds my heart within his chest._

“And what of the Syrian?” A cultured voice called out, ripping him out of his desperate prayers and back to the auction block. 

A man was looking him over as if he was surveying a feast to be had. Nasir only had a moment to stare back, when the slaver came up behind him and sent him toppling to his knees on the wooden pallet. 

A fist tangled into his hair and tugged his head to attention, holding him up to be examined. The slaver’s grip showed no mercy, and his head was forced to unnatural angle as Nasir came face to face with the eyes of a strange, hungry-eyed Roman. He appeared wealthy and discerning, fingers coming up to hold Nasir’s jaw in steady grip. 

His gaze burned over his face and form, catching on the thick, red skin of the scar at his side for long moments before continuing over his hips and thighs. Back up to his face. Strands of black hair fell into Nasir’s line of sight, his pulse suddenly a hammer against his ribs— as if he was about to be pulled away again, as if arms were to wrap around his middle and take him away—

“What a _rose_ he is.” The man praised, and his stomach twisted as a wrinkled, bejeweled hand pushed a wayward lock from his forehead. To get clearer look at the _merchandise._ Nasir swallowed his snarl, biting his own cheek with the teeth he would sooner use to snap fingers from hand— he burrowed deeper into himself, cast his defensive walls higher. “What does he go by?” 

Nasir swallowed, throat bobbing uncomfortably at the angle of his head, forced to look up into the man’s eyes.

The hand in hair pulled away, only to slap the back of his head hard enough to cross his eyes. _“Find fucking tongue!”_ hissed the slaver. 

He sent up one last, manic bargain to the gods, blinking away the heat that threatened in the corners of his eyes. _Protect Agron— see he keeps my heart safe, beating in his far away chest. I will protect my name, I will protect myself for him._

“Tiberius.” He replied, voice clear and smooth as still water, “I am called Tiberius.”

* * *

_Twilight had fallen around the temple. It appeared in a gradient of ever-darkening sky, closing in like jaws of a great beast. The sun fell first behind the canopy of the forest, and then slipped past the horizon. It came with suffocating darkness that saw Agron at the whim of the fucking gods— he fidgeted with his sword, on the edge of snapping, hovering about the steps of camp, always in sight of the wall’s high wooden gate._

_Time slipped by as grains of sand in an hourglass, one by one as the gate remained closed and still. Agron felt his ribs squeezed as in a vice, his lungs unable to fill as the mild summer air turned to concrete about him._

_Nasir’s watch was late._

_Every muscle in him had remained coiled tight and ready to strike since the moment Nasir’s form had disappeared from sight, but as the last rays of sun slipped away, the tension began twisting him into knots. Rebels finishing the packing and preparations for the morning journey gave him a wide berth. Agron had remained oblivious at the time, but would later remember their wary gazes upon his back. None were bold enough to approach him, no one begged his assistance— he wasn’t sure if it was for fear of his famous temper, but was grateful for it. He was unsure if he could have pulled his feet up from their spot if he had made attempt._

_He stayed on his own personal watch, then, until he could finally bear it no longer. His hands itched to wield his blade, and his legs begged to go— to rush out beyond the high gate, seek out his heart amongst the trees. Something was wrong. Even were it not the case that everyone feared, something must have been terribly wrong to keep the watch from their return._

_“We must go after them.” Agron’s words fell from mouth unbidden and uncontrollable, approaching Spartacus just as his brother came towards him. His mouth was open to speak, but Agron cut directly through all fucking pretense._

_He was finally able to take something akin to a breath when their leader merely nodded, “Crixus and Gannicus gather their weapons— we meet at gate and fan out to search.”_

_The last of the twilight and the slow-rising moon were their only lights, guiding steps into the shadowy wood. Crixus and he split off toward the road, while Gannicus and Spartacus took deeper into the trees. Through the darkness, moonlight lit Crixus’ face, with grim set to his jaw. His dark eyes echoed the most insidious voices in Agron’s mind._

_It was more than possible that all was already lost._

_Agron sorely wished to smack the look from his face, if only for the sudden swell of desperation that rose up within him— they all knew what they may find. They all knew what they may_ not _find—_

_Agron lived his life with blanket acceptance of what was at stake. He may die in battle. He may die on the sands, or in rebellion against these Roman shits. He had lost, and still stood to lose cherished brothers and friends. They all took the same risk in this world of piss and shit. These were all facts that he maintained, despite the icy claws that dug into his mind on bad nights. He appreciated straightforward honesty— even bluntness— from his leader and friends. He wasn’t one for coddling. He didn’t want to be fed crumbs simply to assuage fear or worry._

_He would never ask for such things, and yet, he had never wanted so badly for someone to tell him he was overreacting. That all would be well, and Nasir would be safe and uninjured when, gods willing, they found him._

_To see the worry laid bare in the eyes of even Crixus— that fucking Gaul, that immovable boulder of a man, of all people— solidified the knots of Agron’s gut into a frozen stone. The weight of it seemed to drag him through the woods, heedless of anything beyond the general direction of the road and the sword in his hand._

_Searching the trees for the silver moonlit outline of silky black hair and slight form, Agron’s knees nearly gave out when he heard a cry of his name from the shadows._

_It wasn’t Nasir._

Morning saw the camp all but deserted, with nothing in the temple’s halls to indicate that any of them had been there at all. The rebel force congregated in the courtyard, aiding the injured and making the last preparations for travel. 

Lugo still had blood smeared across hands and chest, as if he had not the wherewithal to take a cloth to his skin. Donar leaned heavily on the edge of a cart, head hung low and shoulders hunched around his ears. They both looked to have the weight of the world pressing down on them. 

Agron was the only one remaining in the bowels of their old camp, pacing the dusty floor like a caged lion. The weight bearing down on his kinfolk, on the camp itself in wake of such loss, was nothing compared to the terrible way his blood had slowed and his muscles turned to lead. Lugo and Donar could be crushed by their guilt, for all Agron cared. The fucking gods themselves had something to answer for, yet he could not find enough breath in his lungs to curse them all. 

The day of their journey— the day he had pestered and prodded Spartacus for weeks had finally arrived, and Agron would not be moved a single step. Not without Nasir. 

_Lugo was calling out, deep accent splitting the night as he cried out Agron’s name. The silhouette of two shapes in the middle distance, cutting through the silver light of moon, cut deep into Agron as if a blade were in his chest. Lugo’s stocky frame hulked over a prone figure— too long and too broad to be a slight little Syrian— that had gone limp in the leaf litter. Blood gleamed in a silver slick across the figure’s head and face._

_It was Donar. And the two of them were alone._

_Were it not for Crixus’ sudden hand clasped to Agron’s shoulder and pulling him onward, he was unsure if he’d have been able to spur his legs to cross the distance. His mothertongue came in breathless rambles, falling from Lugo’s mouth with nearly incoherent speed._

_As they ran to their sides, Agron had only parsed some of what his brother had to say for himself._

_The enemy had been few, but ready. Trap was laid, and they sprung from the shadows with eyes on Donar and his mighty axe. He had been struck and battle suddenly whipped up around them like a storm._

_“What of Nasir? Where is Nasir?” Agron could barely break the words, though they were so clearly spelled out in his mind. His throat was tight and dry, his tongue heavy in his mouth. His jaw was clenched enough to hear the grinding of his teeth, but he couldn’t hear anything beyond the pounding of his heart in his ears._

_He knew not when Spartacus and Gannicus emerged from the trees, only that they were crouched at Donar’s other side. He knew not whether Crixus’ tight squeeze of hand on his shoulder had never left him or had been replaced there._

_All Agron knew was the way Lugo’s jaw flexed and his eyes glittered in his ruddy face. He lowered gaze, and Agron could only suck in a ragged breath._

_The only thing that stopped him from tipping backwards on ass was the surprisingly strong, urgent grip that wrapped about his wrist. The slits of Donar’s unfocused eyes locked onto him._

_“He w-would not be parted from her…” he croaked, “A-apologies, brother— he gave chase.”_

_“One moment, little man was there… next, gone through trees.” Lugo shook his head._

_There were more apologies that Agron could not—_ would _not— hear. Spartacus’ voice, spoken as if to a cornered animal, came down in diluted echoes to his right, and Crixus’ hand stayed planted on his shoulder. Gannicus broke further words to Lugo and Donar, grilling them for the smallest detail, but Agron felt as if all of his brothers existed on some separate plane._

_He knew nothing other than he was frozen. The warmth of that day’s sun, the blaze of Nasir’s touch upon his cheek, his lips pressed to his— all of that heat fled his very bones, leaving him as a statue._

_Nasir was gone._

A shattered amphora’s pieces were strewn across the floor, and a rickety table in what was once the medicus was flipped on its wobbly side. The pallet where Mira was once laid— where _Nasir_ had once laid— sat in the center of the small space, taunting Agron with its emptiness. 

He had once sat at Nasir’s side, right where he now desperately paced and itched for a fight. He had _prayed_ on those long, faraway nights for just another day with the brave little Syrian— a man willing to fall to death on ill advised mission on behalf of a stranger. He prayed to the fucking gods of any pantheon, any of the thousands of cults that he’d never been swayed to believe in, that he would yet have a chance to tell his friend how he felt. His stomach flipped within him at the merest brush of their skin. Agron’s heart beat so much more solid and true from the safe place in the other man’s chest. 

Oh, but the _gods._ The fucking gods did play with him, to take his heart from chest and let him so tenderly give it away. To be given such gentle touch and kind gaze, only to rip it away into the night’s shadows. 

He found himself torn between whether it was worse or better, to know Nasir yet lived. His mind only supplied images of blood and torture— his love captured at the hands of the enemy, who would see Spartacus fall at any cost. The same people who maimed Aurelia, killed Lucius and Onenamaus, _Duro—_ Nasir could be at their mercy that very moment. 

He may yet live, but be on the unforgiving auction block, sold again as meat for Roman pleasure and entertainment. Nasir could already have been sold to the far reaches of the Empire. He could be _lost._

 _He could be dead,_ a harsh voice rattled around in his mind. _He could be no more than a cooling body, blood-spattered and unblinking, in the back of some slaver’s wagon—_

Breath became shallow and eyes stung at the thought, the image in his head unshakeable and gut-twisting. Nasir was nothing if not a warrior. He was never to be kept down. But he would not leave that lamb of a girl on some half mad escape attempt— that would mean both their deaths. 

Nasir wasn’t like Agron. He was cool under pressure, he would think before drawing blood. 

_Besides,_ he thought, willing air into his useless lungs as he dropped himself to sit on the edge of the pallet, _he is without weapon._

He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, either. 

_His pulse was the only sound in his ears as the wind rushed past him._

_The moonlit wood was no more than a dim blur rushing by beyond his sight. His vision appeared as if through a long tunnel, legs pumping and feet sending the first of the fallen leaves scattering in his wake. He cared for none of these things._

_He just had to get to the road._

_The boundary from the treeline to the roadside was a slope, nearly sending Agron tumbling from the edge of the wood into the cobbles of the empty highway, but he skidded to an abrupt halt. He slid down to meet the bricks, legs unsteady beneath him._

_There was nothing before him, and nothing behind. Not a single sign of life hit the silver light he bathed in— there was no sign of silky long hair, no thin, compact frame turning away from him, pulled into the night, yet he could see Nasir’s fate plain as day. He could picture the manic chase, the fierce battle. The way Nasir’s teeth bared and his nose scrunched in training, he could see it in his mind’s eye, in action against some unexpected foe— pulled from road to wagon and out of sight._

_Into the darkness beyond._

_“NASIR!” he cried. At least, he assumed it must have been him who let out that heartbroken wail, that desperate, aching sound. “NASIR!”_

_Part of him still expected his fine face to pop out from the brush, to smile his open, contented grin. To wrap his strong arms close around Agron’s neck and let him crush their bodies flush. The memory of his heartbeat beating against his, Nasir secure in his arms so short a time ago, left Agron barely supporting himself, hardly on his own two feet._

_He cried out his name again. It was a terrible, choked thing, hanging in air that he could hardly force himself to breathe. There was heat on his face, yet his body was frozen, cold and trembling, pulse racing but blood seemingly unable to circulate._

_A hand pushed solidly into his chest, and the rush of emotion was immediate._

_It was boiling hot, flooding his veins like the fog of war settling in him as he entered the arena and braced for death. It felt like self preservation, fear, and rage. It burned in his chest until Agron could hardly resist the urge to scream, to roar, to fight._

_He batted away the sudden touch, baring his teeth in a vicious snarl as he pushed further into the body before him. He heard more than he witnessed the stumble, but it still satisfied something deep within him to once again be standing without hindrance. And then, immediately regretted it._

_Alone. He felt he was completely alone._

_“Agron! Agron, stop.” It was Spartacus. He secured grip on Agron’s shoulders and put considerable strength into keeping him back from stagger further up the road. He could hardly see his friend’s grief-stricken face through the hot blur of desperate rage that blinded him. His fists flexed and constricted, shoving back against the hold, but Spartacus was a champion, and Agron was trembling._

_“NASIR—!”_

_“Brother, we will get him back— he yet lives, they’ve no benefit in his death. He may yet be recovered!” Spartacus tried to placate, refusing to let go, holding Agron’s gaze with such certainty that he had to believe him. He felt as if he didn’t believe such a thing, he may drop to the afterlife right there on that road._

_“You alert all of Rome to our position!” he heard Crixus’ familiar rasp breaking through the trees, and went to turn his ire on the idiot—_

_But, his gaze caught on a glint of red in the silver and black night. He frowned, taking slow steps away from his brothers with his wobbling legs. It was a familiar, short-handled spear— Nasir’s._

_In the brush beside the road, still-wet blood of some sorry bastard had drenched the dark metal of the spear’s point, running down the shaft of it far enough for Agron’s seasoned instincts to know real damage had been done. It felt balanced in Agron’s trembling hand, still strong and undamaged— still, evidently, able to strike true to its target._

_He knew, whether from fucking divine intervention or pure madness, that Nasir must have been alive. He must have been well enough to fight, he must have had spear in hand to the last moment._

_He had dealt injury to his captors, vicious little pit viper that he was._

_Despite the endless sea of churning worry, and cruel voice in his mind whispering that all may be lost already, Agron couldn’t help the swooping sensation of sharp, bright emotion rising within his chest. It bubbled out of him in a slightly manic bark of laughter, his trembling legs giving out and taking him to his knees on the cobblestones._

_It felt like hope. He would see his heart again in this life, if he had to battle the gods themselves to make it so._

Warm hand landed on his shoulder and a body sat beside him. 

“Dawn’s light breaks.” Spartacus said, voice a gentle murmur that somehow only served to spark a flame of irritation within him. “We must go.” 

Agron’s exhale huffed from his chest, dry and hinting at a scoff, but he deflated all the same under the heat of his brother’s well-meaning palm. Had he any more tears left in his wrung out form, the sound would’ve been no less than a sob. 

He shook his head, prepared to dig his heels into the dusty medicus floor. “I cannot.” he rasped. 

“Agron—” 

“I _cannot_ be moved, Spartacus, so do not try.” he cut in, “I cannot leave without him.” voice wobbled and broke over the words, but he did not waver in conviction. 

Spartacus’ piercing gaze burned through him, but Agron didn’t turn to meet his leader. His eyes watched only the spear propped against the corner wall, blood now dried and caked over the sharp tip.

“And what will you do? What is your plan?” 

“I will search for him,” he said, sounding a fraction stupid even to his own ears, but he kept on, “and once he is found, we will meet up with the cause in the mountains southward. I merely deviate from course! It is not abandoned—“ 

“You would abandon _life_ to take such path!” His brother cut through him, voice rising in incredulous shock, holding firm to his shoulder as if trying to pull Agron from a precipice. 

He ripped out of such hold, catapulting to his feet and out of grasp. He kept back turned on Spartacus, tense and bristling. 

“Then so be it! Better myself alone so as not to hinder you— no one will die in the mines on _my_ command!” 

He was whirled about by a rough grip, his brother forcing his eyes to meet his. Spartacus’ jaw was locked and mouth grim, gaze blazing as he pushed Agron’s back to wall with a mighty shove. He got in his face, hand pressed to chest and pinning him in place with the strength of a champion. 

“You hinder us by _leaving—_ and Nasir would tell you so, could he stand before you himself!” He hissed through gritted teeth. Spartacus’ desperation to make him listen collided and warred with Agron’s slippery, erratic sense of hope. “You swore oath to me, to this cause. _You_ are our guide! You have taken time to learn maps and these mountains— more than any of us! You are _needed._ To travel this treacherous route without you— you who _drew_ it— is certain death, and I would not lead my force into such a thing again.” 

He stepped back with finality, watching the defiant gleam of madness leave Agron’s eyes, and both brothers heaved deep breaths into collapsed lungs. 

Moving with a swiftness Agron could hardly follow, Spartacus snatched the spear from its place and pushed the shaft into Agron’s useless hands. 

“Come with us.” He all but pleaded, “I will see him again to your arms.” 

_“We will get him back, Brother.” The sincerity of Spartacus’ promise rang through the night and through Agron’s broken heart, his grip on the spear’s shaft tightening impossibly as the wildness of hope and shock, terror and pain collided within him. He sobbed uncontrollably, fighting for elusive breath where he knelt on the road._

_Spartacus held him together with an arm secured around his heaving ribcage, his words the only thing heard over stuttering heartbeat._

_“All is not lost. I_ will _see him again to your arms.”_

He could only nod, all other words evaporated from mind. All that was left was hope that his heart still beat, far away in Nasir’s chest. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hi-- long time, no see <3 
> 
> so, first of all, im really sorry this chapter is so late. i've had a sizeable family shake up, my mental health is not great (focus is pretty shot lol), and i also got derailed by another nagron story that i'll hopefully be posting soon. BUT! i managed to write this MASSIVE chapter, so, that's something <3 
> 
> second of all, we're getting into the deeper, sadder, more traumatic waters in this chapter. Nasir's (non-graphic but undeniably present) non-con experience starts in this chapter. Agron is also deeply depressed in this chapter. THIS IS MY CUE TO REMIND US ALL (myself included) THAT THIS HAS A HAPPY ENDING. They're gonna be fine, everybody's gonna be finnnneeeee. <3 promise. 
> 
> Okay-- as always, please let me know if you like it, or if you want to scream at me for putting these men Through It, or smash your keyboard <3 i love to hear from you!

The building was old, as if repurposed from more glorious times. The barrels of wine were stacked tall, and the torches burnt with a heady orange glow to accommodate the lack of windows. Luxurious, exotic textiles were secured to the walls, covering the stains of age with an opulence that bordered on gaudiness. More silks, gauzy and fine, draped over the thresholds of the many small rooms along the wall and up the stairs— there were _rooms._ They still had open thresholds only obscured by thin fabrics meant to entice, but it was more than the open stalls of most of the brothels Nasir had seen. The mosaic tiles that patterned the floor were faded by spilled wine and many feet— the rushing feet of men on bought time, tugging whichever whore they’d secured for the hour to the nearest room, corner, or seat that they could. To get their money’s worth. 

It was certainly the most sumptuously presented brothel Nasir had ever been in. Not that he had entered many— former dominus did sometimes bid _Tiberius_ to accompany him, though. It was as if being watched, as if having Tiberius’ dispassionate gaze on his actions only brought him closer to his pleasure, even without his cock in ass or hands upon him. 

Nasir had never felt any particular way about brothels before, aside from Tiberius’ usual sense of removed disdain, but he had never before been in one with no way out. He had never been in one for the _use_ of Roman cock. 

There was a cold, nauseous pit in his stomach, growing and growing as it threatened to swallow him whole. Staring down into the small pool of the fountain where they were to wash, he saw the rippling form of his own reflection. His hands stilled their movements, and the cloth he had been dragging across his skin dropped into the water with a muted splash. 

“Nasir?” 

“That is _not_ my name here.” His voice was a rough whisper, harsher than intended as he was ripped from thought. The small hand on his shoulder made hasty retreat, and his heart clenched with regret at the cold spot it left behind. 

Sabia looked properly cowed when he looked up to face her. Her wide eyes glittered and her jaw worked as she tried to find words to break. “Apologies—“

“No, Sabia. The apologies should be mine.” He nodded, lifting a hand to wrap around hers. “But you must remember not to call me that when Romans are near.” 

She emphatically nodded her head back to him, wet hair flopping into her eyes— _gods,_ she was so young. “Our secret, then…” 

“Gratitude.” He squeezed her hand, like he had at auction, a silent promise in the point of contact. _I will protect you…_ “When he comes for me, find a quiet place to hide—“ 

“When who— _dominus?_ How do you know—?” 

As if emerging from the wall itself, a woman appeared from the corridor. Her face was somber and blank, dulled like a blade once sharp. She seemed neither young nor old, and her dark eyes held secrets. Nasir knew the look— it had once been his. She must be body slave to their new dominus. 

“Tiberius, you are summoned.” She said, looking directly at Nasir with her wise gaze. 

He knew it was coming. He had known since the first moment those hungry Roman eyes had landed on him, when jeweled hands pushed the hair from his face and _inspected_ him on the block. The feel of greedy hands such as his were deeply ingrained in the memory of his flesh, further back than he ever dared to go, as were the wanting gazes that had always rolled from his back like water. Nasir knew what it was this man would have of him, yet he had never felt his stomach churn like this at such thought. He had never felt feet pause in face of command, as they did now. 

The woman watched him with her expectant gaze, and he could only bring himself to look right back at her, stock still. 

_Go,_ Tiberius’ voice urged him on, a note of panic stirring his legs to purpose. _Go, before he grows impatient. It is worse when they are of such a mood, and you know it well._

“Na… Tiberius.” Sabia said the name as if it choked her, an urgency in her eyes that pleaded desperately with him. He knew not if she begged him to stay, or to go— to avoid the pain that would come if he refused. 

He steadied himself, rising from the water and letting his feet carry him across the flagstone bathhouse. He curled lips into the shadow of a smile, and could only hope it would be reassuring as he looked back to Sabia. He fixed his gaze on her, and left no room for argument. “Find a quiet place, and I will come to you.” 

She nodded woodenly, and he wished so much that she would stop looking at him like _that—_ with all the fear laid bare in her face, while Nasir so carefully kept it masked, and all the fucking _pity_ in her gaze. He needed nor wanted her pity. The gods saw fit to answer his prayers, showed favor in keeping them together, and now, he kept his promises. That was all. 

He swallowed around the tight dryness in his throat, and tried one more time for a smile that did not feel like a lie, before turning away. He walked through the threshold on silent feet, keen gaze taking stock of his surroundings. 

He would yet see them through this. _I must keep my promises. I will do what I must to survive and see us freed._

_To see my heart again, returned to chest._

The woman stopped before a door— a wooden one, carved with ostentatious, intricate patterns— and Nasir hastily packed his thoughts away. He rolled shoulders down his back and blinked his way back into a mask of cool indifference. Pulling in a slow, measured inhale as if rationing his breath, he slowed the hammering of his pulse and braced as he would for battle. 

He reached for the doorknob, but was given pause by the tender look his guide had fixed on him. Her eyes were as deep pools, and it reminded him of the many slaves in the villa of his former dominus— the ones with patient hearts and steel spines, that raised Tiberius with the gentlest touch that they could spare him. 

It was an unexpected comfort, and it emboldened him to find words. 

“My friend… will you see no one touches her? Until I return?” 

She pursed lips together, perplexed and sad, “Have you yet to learn where you are?” It was patronizing, sounded almost in fucking _jest,_ and sudden anger clenched his jaw. 

“Please.” He said, instead of the biting retort he wished he could give. _“Please,_ she’s little more than a girl.” 

Her answering nod evaporated his anger, the cold fear that thumped through his veins thawed slightly by the warmth in her wine-dark gaze. He opened his mouth, but the woman spoke again before he could thank her.

“I will help her, just this once. But, we all must grow up sometime.” She then gestured to the still-closed door, “Do not keep him waiting.” 

Her voice was not unkind, and her eyes gentle as she flicked them down to Nasir’s hand, which was clenched tightly on the door as if willing it to lead him _anywhere else._ The skin of her hand was hard and smooth from long years of servitude, callused as a stonemason’s as she wrapped her fingers around his own. The thought dawned on him then, that she was not body slave in the same way that Tiberius had once been. From the days of his youth, he recalled Tiberius being groomed and scrubbed for more _delicate_ purposes, his hands kept from labor any harder than use of rags on soiled floors or polishing of fine trinkets. His hands directed the actions of other slaves, and were kept soft as flower petals, for dominus’ use. 

This woman must take the other side of a body slave’s duties. The more administrative role, one Tiberius also remembered well, taking charge of the building itself, rather than her master and his patrons. From the state of her hands, he was more inclined to think she carved the door, than stroked dominus’ cock. 

As if he was finding a new handhold on a cliff face, he seized the hope that flared in his chest. A plan started to take shape in Nasir’s mind. He felt the way the woman touched him, and a way to keep Sabia safe presented itself. At least, until they could find a way to freedom. 

They _would_ once again be free, some day. 

The body slave must have seen the momentary gleam of desperation in his eye, for she squeezed his shoulder tenderly. Her lips curled into an attempt at a smile as she looked at him, “Horatius is not a cruel man.” was her only reassurance. 

Nasir wondered, as the woman turned to go, if she had been made to watch her master with others as Tiberius had. If she spoke of Horatius’ general disposition alone, or if she knew of his more lusty habits. Either way, her smile was weak, but her eyes were kind. Perhaps this was how Sabia had felt as he turned away from her with no more than his own smile and platitude.

It _did_ mean something, though— it meant the world to hear that the man on the other side of the door would not willfully hurt him. Not anymore than former dominus had, at least. 

If it was all the favor the gods had left to spare him, Nasir could make due. He would have to. 

“What is your name?”

She turned back to him only for a moment, “Mila.” 

He bit his tongue against the return response of _I am Nasir._ That was not who he was, not here. She knew what she needed to know, and to her, he was Tiberius. 

_I am Tiberius, I am Tiberius…_ he repeated to himself, squeezing the handle and thinking of Agron. He thought of the light in his crackling green gaze when they spied each other across the battlefield— the desire, the pride, and the _relief._ No matter the scrapes and bruises Nasir may have suffered, he was always the most happy that Nasir survived. 

Swallowing the blood from his bitten cheek, Nasir told himself this was just another battle. Whatever this man did to him, it would be just another bruise, and Agron would only be proud of him for surviving. Agron would kiss each and every scrape with his clever mouth, when the gods returned him to his arms. 

So long as Agron survived, so would Nasir. 

“Gratitude, Mila. For your kindness.” 

He waited until she was out of sight before gathering his strength and opening the door.

* * *

There was an odd sense of peace that Tiberius brought with him. As if encased in thick ice, Nasir simply sank down and away from any and all that was asked of him— Tiberius did not flinch from the hands of his dominus, and he did not hiss at the discomfort or pain. 

Under such protection, violation had rarely ever felt violating. 

It had always been that his body was not his to command, anyway. He was owned, he was property in his dominus’ villa. He existed in whatever capacity was required or desired of him, and that was his body’s purpose. The logic was simple and sound. When he was of a mood, Tiberius fulfilled that mood. Life was less a sequence of events and more of a complex dance, but Tiberius knew every step, as well as anticipating the purpose of all other feet on the floor. He exceeded all expectations while Nasir stayed safe, deep in the cool water beneath the frozen exterior. The rhythm of servitude was all he knew, he did not even dare to consider that he may not desire the things that happened to him. He knew the dance, but he did not lead it—the feet were not even his own. 

He had been a very good slave. Distantly, he remembered once being proud of that. 

Desire was a foreign thing intended for freeborn Romans. For all that he had pleased others, for all he had been desired, all he had been touched, stroked, and fucking _contorted_ in Tiberius’ skin, Nasir had never felt a desire of his own. Not until he had Agron at his hips, hands skating across his back and lips on throat, dazzling green gaze feeding off _his_ pleasure, seeing him as a man who was a part of this world, rather than some thing the world happened to. 

It was the most treasured thing in his life, to be free and be free to _love._ He was beloved. Nasir would and could never regret such care, such gentle touch and attentive gaze. 

Yet now, knowing what it was to burn with passion, to be _free,_ he also knew the difference between love and use. It was a cold, cold thing. Once again, he now only had the option to kneel, to bend, to _break_ under his master’s domination. The thought left a claustrophobic vacuum in his chest, and he almost found himself wishing to build another wall of protection. One that could separate him from beloved memories and knowledge of freedom, simply to distance himself from the visceral feeling of being degraded by Roman hands.

For the first time in his life, walking along on wobbly legs from Horatius’ quarters, he felt violated. 

The trickling of the fountain where the whores bathed felt frigid. It had been so much _easier_ before, to slip under to the command of a dominus— before Agron seared his hands into his flesh and kissed the skin over his heart. 

_You said they would not break you,_ came a reminder from the back of his mind. It was quieter than before, but no less steely and determined. 

With deep, shuddering breath, he steadied himself, taking stock of his current situation. 

The memory of Horatius’ wrinkled hands on his skin had his stomach churning with nausea even though he had not eaten a scrap of food in what felt like days. He dragged the cloth again over thighs and the sensitive skin below his navel, and imagined Agron soothing away the hazy memory of hated touch. 

He wrung out the cloth and saturated it again, scrubbing harder across his skin until his muscles supported him again, and the shivering stopped. Until he was numbed to the cold water. He rolled shoulders down his back and stood tall. The discomfort faded to an ache, and Nasir breathed long and slow. He dove under the depths of Tiberius’ protective hold on him, and took his own heart in his hands. 

Nasir heaved a sigh of relief then, a tear slipping from his eye and clinging to his lashes. His heart felt bruised, but unstained, tucked carefully away from the act. He held his heart and felt it, whole and beating, kept warm by crackling green fire and the image of wicked, grinning lips… the feeling of their kiss, flushing hot through his veins like wine… 

He had kept his promise to Agron. The gods may yet see him stay alive, as long as Nasir protected them. 

He had kept his promise to Sabia, too, and the relief saw him dropping to sit at the edge of the fountain, a dim swell of pride in his chest thinking of it. It had taken more courage than he could have summoned to take on Rome itself, but he had managed to find voice.

_“Gratitude, dominus.” he had broken first words, leaning heavily into Tiberius’ cool demeanor as Horatius stroked palm down the line of his back, “For seeing fit to purchase Sabia as well.”_

_The Roman did no more than wave a hand dismissively, “She was all but bodily attached to you— it was not as if such a slight thing commanded any real price, anyway.” His smile could have been called genial, his laugh good natured._

_Nasir_ hated _him. “You were, of course, deserving of the slaver’s concession, given my imperfections.” he choked on the word, rooting himself to the tile floor so as not to shy away from the hand that came to trace over his scar._

_There were those hungry eyes, again, holding Nasir’s gaze with a starving gleam and simpering expression. He stroked over the rough skin as if to wipe it away. “A minor defect… you appeared a vision from Venus on that block, a rose amongst weeds. Your little friend will earn her keep, but I’ve half a mind to keep you for my own bed.” he chuckled, lowering his nose to Nasir’s perfumed hair and inhaling as if he truly was a plucked flower._

_He swallowed, flexing hands as the urge to move became undeniable. “Dominus, my friend— she is barely more than a child, her- her maidenhood remains intact.” he had no clue if such a thing was true. His ribs were squeezed tight as he rolled the dice, breath shallow with the clenching fist of the gods around his form. Horatius pulled back to meet his gaze, an impatient spark lighting in his beady eyes._

_“I… I may know of a way to maximize her value.”_

“Nasir?” the sound was whispered, barely breathed, yet he still seized with panic at the sound. 

He whipped about with a snarl twisting his face, “That is _not my name.”_ he snapped, facing Sabia. 

She looked the slightest bit more at ease, steadier on her feet, and rather than cowering from him as she had before, she lifted her chin. 

“I see no Romans here, and I will not call you as they would their pet.” she said with finality, stepping forward and holding out a set of soft-looking, loose clothes much like her own. “Mila bids you wear these.” 

He dropped defenses within moments, exhaustion seeping into him as a fraction of Tiberius’ mask melted under the eyes of his only friend. He didn’t have to hide his heart from Sabia— they may not have known each other well, but they were the only ones who knew the other as a _free_ person. Nasir took the clothes. 

“Gratitude…” he murmured as he tugged them on, but it was for more than the clothes. Sabia knew such things, he could tell, feeling her gaze as she studied him. “Mila saw you safe? While I was gone?” 

She nodded absently, “I do not understand why you delay the inevitable.”

“Well, it is delayed further, so you need not worry.” was his only reply. He tugged back the errant black hair forever falling into his line of sight, locking eyes with Sabia’s wary ones. 

As if concerned for the answer he may give, she struggled to ask, shifting weight from foot to foot. The fountain trickled behind them, the sounds of the busy brothel outside the bathhouse echoing off the flagstones as Nasir held her gaze, and Sabia found the courage to break words. 

Finally, she found tongue to speak, “What have you done, Nasir?” 

“You will not be joining the other whores in the brothel. I have told dominus that your chastity will be more valuable when preserved for a wealthy enough patron— until then, you serve under Mila’s direction.” 

“What about you?” was the immediate response, and Nasir tried to keep his gaze tender as he watched her sharp mind jump ahead and land on proper footing. 

“I will serve the dominus—“

Sabia’s whole form moved with the force of her shaking head, reaching out and gripping him by the shoulders, “I would never ask such a thing of you!” 

“Then I suppose it’s fortunate that you didn’t have to!” He snapped in reply, pulling himself from her thin hands and settling his rapid pulse with a slow breath. “I promised you my protection, Sabia. Do me the honor of letting me keep my word.” 

He was winning her over, he could see it in the slope of her brow and floundering gesture of her arms as they searched for a way to reverse the sun. He let his gaze plead for him. 

“Wh-what of your beloved? Nasir…” she gripped at her own chest as she sputtered for coherence, hands pressed to her heart. He could not resist the fondness that drew him close, and he wrapped arms around the young woman. 

“To be made to serve this way is not unknown to me. I have practice, and a means of protection. My name belongs to Agron’s lips, and my heart remains untouched in his embrace.” He could not help the sad smile that curled his lips, missing his wild man with an acute ache that tightened his throat and brought hot tears to his eyes. “I swear to you, Sabia— I will see that we are free again.” 

Sabia’s lip trembled, brow furrowed with intense thought as she studied his expression for any trace of uncertainty. And then she threw her arms around him and squeezed him to her bird-like chest, hugging him fiercely. 

“And I swear that I will see you returned to absent heart. I will protect you, too, Nasir.”

* * *

They reached the river valley in Agron’s maps in due course— just in time for the deluge of italian winter. A lifetime ago, he had picked the location as a respite given by the fucking _gods._ Surely, they must have favored them, to have shown them a place so remote, yet so accessible. From the north and east, the forested mountains bared down on them, making an all but impenetrable wall for them to defend from. Two days southward journey took them to the port of Salernum, and yet closer was the road that bore wealthy merchants to and from its ships. It was an ideal place to wait out the wet, inclement weather, train new recruits, and plan next moves. 

Standing, now, at the mouth of the valley he’d chosen and seeing it as a fully realized base of the rebellion, he should have felt a swell of pride. 

Agron did not feel much anymore, though. He stood at the ledge of the northern mountains, where the generals and the most trusted advisers kept their quarters. From the elevated position, he looked out across the small city of lit tents and freely living folk, and he felt nothing but the cold heaviness of _guilt._

The full moon was once again high overhead. It was one of the few of his surroundings he still took true stock of. The moon. It was the benchmark of another month passing without Nasir. Another month of fruitless searching, where his heart was pulled further and further from his arms, ripped from chest. It weighed Agron down with a heft he had never known— he seemed more leaden, crushed down into the earth, with each day that crawled by. 

The heaviness had invaded him like a disease, seizing his body with icy tendrils that froze in his veins. Exhaustion plagued him throughout each day, while panic laid in wait until the night fell. That was when thoughts of Nasir— tortured, sold from hand to hand, _dead_ in any and all ways _imaginable—_ eclipsed all others. 

He studied the maps late into each night, running endless scenarios of where he could have been taken, by what road, by whom? How best could Agron see them perish by his sword? 

It was the only thing the illness of his mind and body had not touched— his _rage._

When they took to the road, his savagery was unmatched. The carts of frightened faces on their way to market all appeared to him with imaginings of handsome black eyes, long, dark hair, with such beloved face and form— he could not stand it. Those poor souls were naked, bruised, filthy and bloodied at their keepers’ treacherous hands. It ignited such a blaze in him, Agron could not help but consume all he saw. Roman guards to fall under his blade were rendered unrecognizable, and every fucking _shit_ of a slaver from the mountains to Rome itself had cause to tremble at the mere sight of him. He had become known to return from road “painted in red”. New recruits whispered behind their hands, and gave him wide berth. 

They weren’t alone in that. Even Gannicus had gone a bit green when he was upon road with Agron. 

Gazing out over the camp with dead eyed exhaustion and a grim set to his jaw, he found the beast within his mind yet again gnashing his teeth. The poisonous swirl of anxiety, guilt, and ever-encroaching despair always kept him on a knife's edge. He teetered between reckless mania—a step away from abandoning his cause and striking out alone— and complete detachment. Those times left a chill in him that put winters of his homeland to shame. 

Those were the times when he could not help but doubt. It was shameful, digging its razor-sharp claws into his chest and curling heavy across his shoulders, whispering in his ear. He would never see Nasir again in this life. He was beyond him, either in death or distance, and the fault was his— he should never have left his side in the first place, he should not have listened to Spartacus, he should not have been swayed from course. They were no closer to finding Nasir than they had been when he picked up that blood-soaked spear from the brush. 

Nasir may have given up on him by now. The thought of it was enough to send him to the afterlife, but Agron wouldn’t blame him. Nasir, enslaved by any fucking manner of Roman shit, thinking himself abandoned by the man who had claimed the dearest love for him— if he felt betrayed, if he hated Agron for all he had been unable to do, he would understand. 

He could not hate him any more than Agron did. 

He blinked, trying to shed enough of the sensation to choke through one last interaction before returning to his tent. The half crazed hope that Spartacus would _not_ try to engage him in some fucking attempt at conversation— that he would let Agron go peacefully— was beyond any favor the gods would show him. That much he knew. 

Rolling shoulders down his back, he braced himself to part the mats of his leader’s tent. 

The tent was the largest, if only because it held the strategic meetings and stored the rations and blankets they stockpiled for the coming winter. Spartacus was a man of minimal needs in a veritable palace of canvas, but Agron did not envy him his position— the space of his own tent, without Nasir by his side, in his bed, sharing space, felt like a great yawning cavern. 

He could hardly stand it. 

“Agron.” His brother greeted as he slipped into the low light of the lanterns. 

Spartacus did not sound surprised to see him, though he had long since begun to chafe at the way his leader said his name— as if a sigh was held back only by force of will. As if relieved he yet walked the earth, but simultaneously wishing nothing more than to not see him. 

He sucked the air from the room, and he knew it. Silence fell on the hushed voices he stepped into, and the prickle of irritation was only just quelled by the quiet, logical voice in his mind. 

_You’ve no real reason to suspect they talk about you,_ it sounded like Nasir. It tried to soothe, and he swallowed his snappish words. 

He did it for Nasir, as he did damn near everything. 

For a moment, he simply stood there in the awkward silence— Spartacus studied him from where he stood on the other side of the table. Mira watched on beside him, her face as keenly observant as ever, but her eyes overwhelmed him with something that gleamed like _pity._

It was Crixus’ clear, penetrating stare that cracked something inside of him, though. All were turned to _look_ at him, and Agron wanted nothing more than blood. He wished for a Roman— any _fucking_ Roman— before him. To hear the snap of bone under fist. 

The voice in his head gave a chuckle, and in his mind he could picture so clearly Nasir’s twinkling black eyes rolling at him, _be not so combative, wild man._

Finally, he punched out a sigh and broke a fucking word in the silence. “Maps?” 

It wasn’t as if it wasn’t known why he was there. 

Spartacus insisted on keeping all maps in his quarters. He claimed it a precaution, after the death of that Chadara girl, _months_ ago. Agron suspected it had more to do with seeing him, more to do with drawing him out and into some ill-fated conversation, like a rabbit in a trap. 

Spartacus nodded to the side, gesturing to the chest where they both knew such things were kept. Silence hung like a storm cloud as he forced legs to take mechanical steps, itching with the gazes upon him. 

He waited for the storm to break, and Spartacus lived up to his name as Bringer of Rain. 

“You were not seen at evening meal.” 

“I’ve no stomach for it. You know such things.” He ate enough to maintain his strength. It was all he could manage. What was Nasir eating, wherever he was? Had he gone hungry? 

Mira then piped up, her voice more tender than he remembered it ever being, “That does not make such thing any less of a necessity.” Her usable hand picked at the threads and straps of her sling. 

He could not bring himself to raise harsh words to her— he liked Mira. And Nasir had always shared a bond with her. To know she woke and lived would bring such a smile to his fine face. “If a person has no hunger, best to save the grain— winter approaches.” 

He looked down to his hands, counting the rolls of parchment, and was granted small favor to see a change of subject amongst them. 

“We are short a scroll.” 

Spartacus produced it, rolling it up from the table to hold out to Agron’s hand. 

Yet, when he reached to take it, his leader’s grip did not lessen. He tugged, only for Spartacus to hold fast, keeping Agron in place at his side. The prickle of irritation that had simmered within since the moment he parted the mats flared into a flame. 

His eyes met Spartacus’ with a ferocity once reserved for the arena, eyes crackling with mad green fire and jaw flexing as he ground his teeth. It was a warning he would usually never level toward any less than an enemy, but his patience was worn thin. Spartacus, though, did not shirk from him, even though the tent had gone cold and tense. Crixus and Mira had both coiled up like springs in response to the unspoken threat. 

Spartacus let his worry be bold on his face, grip firm as he lifted his free hand and took Agron by the wrist. Brows were furrowed, creasing forehead while his brother held Agron’s gaze as if he could extinguish the fire within them. Like his dearest wish was to bring him a measure of peace. 

“I know these past months have not been easy for you, brother. But your friendship and counsel have been invaluable…”

“I keep an oath.” Agron managed to reply, little more than a ragged whisper. 

Spartacus nodded solemnly, as if the weight of leaving the temple without Nasir was visible, crushing him before his leader’s very eyes. It definitely felt like it. “A point not forgotten. I _will_ see him to your arms again.” 

There was no mistaking how much _he_ believed the words. Yet, they only grew harder to hear, and Agron clung to anger, the once meaningful promise stoking the flames. 

His scoff was sharp as his blade, cutting through the air, “It has been _six months,_ Spartacus. Forgive me my doubt.” The sardonic words shattered the quiet as if he’d yelled them at the top of his lungs, not been hissed between gritted teeth. 

He did not take stock of the way Crixus looked at him then, nor the way Mira immediately raised voice in defense of their fearless leader. He looked only at the stricken expression on Spartacus’ face, felt the loosening of his grip on both wrist and parchment. He claimed his freedom from the hold and left the tent in a wrathful fog. A fine tremble shook his bones and blood pounded in his ears as he finally shouldered past the mats and into the moonlight. 

It was like a silver spotlight, landing on his shoulders and demanding his excuse for another month without Nasir rescued. Guilt surged, weighing down onto his shoulders and waging fresh assault on the pit of icy emptiness behind his ribs. The rush of hot anger was flushed from his veins in moments, the crush of exhaustion wrapping impossibly tighter around him in its absence as he took the few steps to his own tent. 

Finally, he understood the agony that Crixus must have felt, absent Naevia for all that time. Agron would kill a hundred men— a _thousand_ fucking Romans— for Nasir in his arms once more. Just to know where he was, to know he yet lived, would be enough. To have a direction to progress that didn’t begin and end alone within the canvas of his empty tent, with nothing but Nasir’s spear standing as evidence that he once occupied the space. 

Without the strength to keep feet beneath him, Agron dropped himself to sit on the edge of the bed, depositing the armful of maps at his side. The blankets upon the pallet had remained untouched all these weeks. Agron could not bring himself to lie there, to find any meaningful rest— where did Nasir sleep now, torn from his embrace? Did he find it as pointless as he did?

 _What is sleep when you are wrested from side?_ He felt the ghost of soft lips pressing to cheek. They had always slept with his back to Agron’s front— he used to press his nose into the nape of his neck and kiss the notches of his spine. Nasir used to cuddle further back into him in one last bid for sleep whenever Agron had to wake him for the day. 

Agron looked at the unruffled blankets of the bed now, and he had never felt so _tired._

He was so deep in his mind, he didn’t hear the mats part or the steps of someone entering. All he knew was that he could no longer keep his head on his own shoulders, and, propping his elbows on his knees, Agron put his head in his hands. There was still blood caked under his nails from the long day of questioning _useless_ Roman slavers, but he saw no point in the effort of cleaning them. He would be awash in blood again soon enough. 

He did not feel as if he was even searching anymore. He felt like a child being _pacified._ It was as if Spartacus ran him in tighter and tighter circles while his heart was driven further afield. He was a mad dog on so steady a diet of Roman flesh, he had not taken the time to realize who held his fucking leash. 

_“Idiot.”_ he thought the word more than he said it, ground out on what was nearly a sob as he dug the heels of his palms into his eyes.

“You at least sound more like yourself when you insult me.” a voice huffed with poor attempt at humor. It came not from within his mind, but close by his shoulder, and Agron startled with such force, he shook the pallet beneath him. 

He whipped head to the source of the voice, only to see fucking _Crixus_ at his side. He was close enough to feel the heat of his form, but not to touch. He was visibly uncomfortable, placating with hands up in surrender. 

“Since when do you master stealth?” he snapped, irritation igniting from the jolt of surprise. 

Crixus shrugged. “I do not. I called your name twice.” 

“Spartacus sends you, then. An inspired choice.” He did not say it as question, but the Gaul shook his head. 

“I come by my own two feet.” 

It was on a delay that Agron took in the finer details— the slope of his brow, the downturned set of his mouth, the way his hands flexed absently in his lap. Crixus took stock of Agron’s study, chewing his cheek and dropping gaze. 

Agron punched out a bitter scoff of a laugh as he realized the Gaul’s purpose. 

“I must truly look shat from Jupiter’s ass to draw _your_ pity.” 

Crixus did not seem to share in his poor attempt at humor, meeting his gaze fiercely. “What I feel is not fucking _pity—_ I understand this pain, if you recall.” 

He did. How could he forget the force of the fist in his face? The haggard, bloody mess of the mines survivors— _Nasir,_ and his crudely cauterized wound. That was the moment he first truly regretted his lie; that he felt even a shadow of Crixus’ desperation for Naevia. 

Nasir had now been gone near twice the time that they searched for Naevia. Not too long ago, he was willing to resign a woman to the afterlife after being missing for a season— by that logic, Nasir must be dead. What little was in his stomach flipped and twisted, and Agron swallowed roughly. 

“What of it? Memories of Naevia’s capture have never exactly inspired your kindness towards me in the past.” 

Crixus only hummed sadly. “The gods punish you more harshly than I would ever imagine—”

 _“Punish_ me? Fucking—” it was too much, to hear such words, when he had so often weighed the thought. Had his misdeeds wrought this on Nasir? Had the gods seen fit to curse him? The weight of his guilt warred with the sudden swell of rage that swept up through him at the ill-chosen words. He stood from the bed, swinging round to face Crixus head on, staring down at him with as much fire as he could still muster. “They may do all they fucking wish to _me—_ what of Nasir? What did he ever do to deserve whatever _punishment_ he suffers? He nearly died on your crazed mission— for _you_ and absent heart—”

“Apologies, _apologies— Agron!”_ He rose to stand, hands up yet again in a show of yielding. “Peace, brother. I’ve no gift for words, I speak poorly. I have long since reconciled with your false tongue. Naevia bid me so, she… she sees your logic, and you made apology for such things. I will never respect your choice, but I move on.” His words were a rasp, like they tasted wrong to his tongue, but his eyes were earnest. 

Silence reigned, a beat of awkward quiet that saw Agron starting to deflate. Every time the disease of his loss surged back into him with the passing of anger, it only grew heavier. He slumped, beyond the ability to hold himself up, not even to Crixus' discerning eyes. He could only stare at his brother as he stepped in closer, clapping hand to his shoulder. 

“I would not wish this agony on my worst enemy.” He finally said, words flowing with more ease. “And, as much as we do battle, you are hardly that.” 

It would be embarrassing to have that— a small kindness from an unexpected place— be what broke him, had Agron the presence of mind to feel such things. He was too tired, though. He was too strained, he was too broken for such vanity in that moment. 

“I was supposed to be with him.” The words spilled from his mouth unbidden, as if a dam broke behind his teeth. “I had to ask Spartacus— it was only my taking watch in Saxa’s stead that took him from my side. It wasn’t supposed to be Lugo or Donar, or that poor fucking _child._ They think I blame them, they do not dare to meet my gaze, but it was _my fucking fault—”_

He did not weep. He knew not how his eyes remained dry, but the grit of sleeplessness had him blinking rapidly, heaving dry sobs from his chest. He did not cry, but he shook like a leaf in a storm as his brother tugged him into his arms and gripped him to chest. 

Agron trembled from the core of his being to have said such things aloud. To admit he had failed yet again, to think that he had been so close to keeping his love safe. He lost him, as he lost his freedom back in his homeland, and he lost Duro— he had turned back for but a _moment,_ and the gods struck. 

_If this is truly punishment,_ he thought, _let final retribution be swift. Let me fucking die._

He knew not how long he let Crixus hold him, or when they had maneuvered themselves to sit back on the edge of the bed. Agron could not hold himself up any longer, Crixus’ firm hands acting as his only tether to the world. 

“I _beg_ of you to put trust in Spartacus.” He heard as breath began to slowly recover, “Agron, do you hear my words?” 

He grunted, not even having the energy to nod. 

“Spartacus does all within his power. He makes plans.” 

There was an undertone in the Gaul’s words that brought Agron to look up. He was met with the barest hint of a reassuring smile. 

“Plans for what?” 

“He did not wish for me to say until strategy takes proper shape, but he plans to raid Salernum— take supplies for winter, free what slaves we can, and take to the docks. For the inventory of slaves passing through the port…” 

“So, if Nasir was taken through Salernum—” Agron felt a manic little spark in his blood as he sat upright and put the words to their meaning. 

“— then we will know both where he was, and where he was headed.” 

Agron had known nothing of this. “Why did Spartacus not tell me?” 

Crixus sighed, long and hard, “He was hoping some knowledge may have been passed along road by now to give more solid foundation to his plan, but nothing has come of the raids upon the slave carts. He did not wish to give you false hope.” 

“But you disagree?” 

“I know this pain.” He replied, “All you have is hope. And watching you succumb to doubt hurts like a wound— to me, to Spartacus. Your brothers would see you returned to heart.” 

The feeling ached in his chest, foreign and flickering like flint on doused kindling. The spear leaned against the canvas wall beside his bed, and he gazed at it with red-rimmed, glassy eyes. 

Nasir _needed_ him. This was no time to lose heart. Back in the arena, it was not the brute strength and blood that won the battle— he remembered Duro, getting up, and up, and up again despite the many blows and greater skill of his opponent. The endurance, the will to continue, kept him standing. 

Agron could not rightly say how many more blows he could take, but he knew he could force himself to his feet one more time. He could take Salernum, in Duro’s name and memory. 

He could do it for Nasir. 


End file.
